


Oblivion In Her Hands

by ThereAreNoLines



Category: Lost Girl, Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, Knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereAreNoLines/pseuds/ThereAreNoLines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer forgets. Ciara has ways to remind her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oblivion In Her Hands

It isn’t easy to love Ciara, but it’s easy to get lost in her.

At first, she’s all blonde hair, and soft noises, and fingertips dancing along her skin, searching for something to hold onto. She’s a waif. She’s a warrior. She’s deceptive. She makes it easy, so Spencer forgets. She forgets everything she knows, and everything that is, and instead she gets lost in her sweet scent and her soft skin. Ciara is an idol to be worshiped properly. Ciara is something she can easily tear apart. Somewhere between the two, the line bleeds away to nothing. There’s no map. There’s no compass. So she loses her way.

She is a wolf. She can’t be helped. When her heart begins to race and the notes of adrenaline take the place of the blood that’s already rushing in her ears, she can’t help but let it all take over. It’s no longer her and her lover, it’s her and her prey. She digs her nails in to mark her, and her teeth give way to blood, and Ciara is just so fucking wet for her that she forgets again. She forgets that there’s a line at all. She forgets that she’s trying to balance on it. She forgets that, though she might be a wolf, Ciara still has her on a leash.

It’s not until Ciara’s cool hand suddenly closes around her throat that she remembers.

Spencer’s on her back suddenly, and she can feel every single one of the eight hundred threads in the sheets against her skin, and it’s eight hundred times over that she’s told she should have known better, that she should have kept her head, that she shouldn’t have forgotten. But there’s no greater warning than the glint in Ciara’s eyes, and the tiny, tiny smirk at the corners of her mouth that makes her expression both elfishly mirthful and yet gravely serious. (Not to mention, sexy as hell.) Spencer swallows a moan as best as she can with Ciara’s fingertips cutting off her air supply. She lets up just enough to allow Spencer to choke down a gasping breath, with an expression that’s smug enough to suggest that she should be grateful, before tightening her grip again, cutting her off completely.

That’s the thing about Ciara. She never does anything halfway. Spencer’s nearly unconscious by the time she finally let’s go, her vision spotty and swimming, her chest aching. But the one thing in her line of sight that never goes blurry is Ciara, and as she does let go, leaving her fingertips in place for the slight but staunch reminder of her place, the rush as she gasps in air as deeply as she can floods her and falls over her, a rushing stream suddenly undammed. It bubbles and tumbles over every part of her as she gasps, and the only word she has the peace of mind to form is “Please.”

Ciara doesn’t respond. She doesn’t say anything at all, in fact, and Spencer’s heartbeat it even louder in her ears as Ciara painstakingly reaches over the side of the bed, pulling a knife out from beneath the mattress. Before she even feels the cold metal against her thigh, her heart leaps up into her already bruising throat, and for a brief second, it occurs to her how deliciously ironic it is that something so cold could make her bloom so quickly to warmth.

Her fingers tangle in the sheets, nails digging into the mattress as she quivers beneath the tip of the knife, the most motion she dares to make. Ciara draws it across her skin like an artist – and really, she is – putting just enough pressure beneath the blade to leave a mark, but not enough to break the skin. Ciara does what Spencer can never do; she walks the line. Moreover, she reminds her just how easily she could tip over the edge, with the tip of the knife digging into her skin as she pulls it across her stomach, or the hand tightening around her neck, holding her just tight enough to allow breath to tumble roughly along her throat. Her blood roars in her ears as it rushes by and her eyes are shut to the darkness of the room as she struggles not to arch up against her.

Ciara shifts her hand only slightly as she brings the knife up to her neck, pressing up against her jawline. She can feel her pulse leaping up to meet it, and with each frenzied throb of her heart, she’s that much closer to ruin. Ciara knows – that’s the point, and the fairy’s eyes are alight with the knowledge as she leans over, mouth roughly finding the shell of her ear. “Howl all you want.” She whispers, her voice dark honey. She holds oblivion in her hands, and she knows it. “The moon will never come to you.”


End file.
